Tower
by Skull Bearer
Summary: Two years between the War of the Lance and Legends. Two years Dalamar spent in the Tower at Palanthas. Two years with Fistandantilus. Here are pieces from those years.
1. Chapter 1

_Written for and dedicated to ChetwyndHayes, who's just had a serious operation. Hope this helps you feel better (you can always be glad you're /not/ there)_

**Tower**

Meetings in the Tower

Ivory and Ebony interlude.

_Wasted thoughts time has lost  
Something special could grab the air  
And pull a cloud over your heart  
But it won't  
Nothing special will come over you  
Will come for you  
-Like it's Your Last, Devil Sold His Soul._

The Tower of High Sorcery was cold.

Usually, that was almost a blessing, it matched Dalamar's mood and made it easier, to take the cold into himself and block out the world. It was easier to be ice; ice didn't think, ice didn't feel, ice didn't have to respond to the knot of dull pain that had become a more constant companion than the loss of exile. He'd long ago stopped expecting it to fade.  
It only ebbed at odd moments, when Fistandantilus looked at him, forcing Raistlin's features into a parody of his lover's expressions. Dalamar didn't know if the lich was trying to fool him, or just to hurt him, and didn't care, because whenever it did that the pain faded, only to be replaced by a rush of fury so intense that Dalamar was sometimes surprised it didn't incinerate the lich on the spot.

After that, sometimes the lich would carry on with the charade, pulling its stolen face into what it must believe a hurt expression looked like. Sometimes it just turned away, as though nothing had just happened. Sometimes, it would actually lash out and Dalamar would be left nursing burns and bruises but with a feeling of vindication he could never quite place. This time, it sneered. Fistandantilus could read the murder in his eyes, just as it knew Dalamar was powerless to act.  
Despite knowing exactly what this usually preceded, Dalamar didn't react. He knew how much the lich wanted to kill _him_, just as he knew that lich was equally powerless, unless it wanted to bring the wrath of the Conclave on its head.  
Fistandantilus' expression didn't change, it didn't even move. Dalamar braced himself, knowing it was useless but determined to try anyway.  
The first blast he managed to deflect, and even managed to duck the second- Fistandantilus had used this ruse before. He gathered himself to avoid the next attack-  
And stopped. He'd known this was coming, but always hoped that maybe... Fistandantilus didn't move, he'd raised one of Raistlin's slender hands before it's dead eyes and clenched it into a fist. The knuckles stood out under the golden skin as he tightened it.  
This time, he wouldn't fall. This time, he wouldn't scream. He'd promised himself that a thousand times. He'd promise it a thousand more.

It was only afterwards, leaning on the table in one of the Tower's vast and numerous kitchens, that Dalamar let the ice slip, just a little. It was warmer in the kitchens, by virtue of being almost underground, and was the one place Fistandantilus rarely visited. Dalamar wondered if the lich even had to eat anymore. It was a dead wraith inhabiting a dead body, why would it?  
Because of this, the kitchen had become the closest thing he had to a haven in this place. He felt more at home here than in the bedroom he had been allotted. That room was bare and empty, and freezing cold, the fire's heat never penetrating very far. Down here the fire's heat was reflected off the warm brick walls and Dalamar took off his cloak for the first time that day.

His hands were still shaking a little; the spell left no permanent marks, but the echo of pain would follow him for a while yet. He glanced longingly at the locked cabinet beside the washbasin where he kept the healing potions. They wouldn't do any good, he knew, he'd tried. They'd healed the burns he gotten trying to open the lich's spellbooks, and the broken wrist he'd received when Fistandantilus caught him, but they wouldn't do anything for the pain that spell left him with.  
Or the pain in his heart. Not just the loss, but the despair when he saw how impossible this was. He'd known this was going to be hard when he came here, but how hard... Fistandantilus hadn't even been trying, an ice blast here, a fireball there... and when Dalamar managed to avoid those, the lich just tore through his magical defences as though they weren't even there, and Dalamar would be in so much pain he couldn't even stand, let alone fight back.

How was he supposed to kill something like that?

The creature didn't even seem to sleep, or if it did, it warded its room until Dalamar couldn't even find it, let alone break in.  
Of course, the Conclave had forbidden him to kill the lich before they discovered what it was doing, but Dalamar really didn't care. It was no longer as simple as revenge. Although he still didn't know for certain what Fistandantilus was planning, its secrecy, and the sheer amount of power it seemed to involve, was terrifying.  
What _was_ it doing? If the lich wanted to take over the world it would have done so by now. Dalamar had scoured the Conclave for books on the creature, wondering if it wanted to finish some great plan left undone, but the accounts were maddeningly vague. Many of the oldest accounts had been left behind in the destroyed Towers during the Lost Battles, and the only reliable accounts left came from the Dwarfgate Wars, where those closest to the Dark Mage had perished with the destruction of Zhaman.

More than anything, Dalamar wanted to go the Great Library, but other than his occasional visits to the Conclave, he was a veritable prisoner in the Tower. The charm he had been given to cross the guardian forest had been taken back the moment Fistandantilus had seen who the Conclave had sent. Whether the creature had guessed Dalamar knew the truth and wanted to keep him isolated, or if it was simply enjoying tormenting him Dalamar didn't know.  
His plan, his only real hope, was that whatever the lich was trying to do would leave him weakened enough to be vulnerable. If he could stop whatever it was trying, so much the better, but if not, he would settle for just killing the monster.

And Nuitari, he hoped that would come soon. It wasn't the danger that was the worst, he'd been expecting that, and while the lich had so far been restrained from doing him any permanent damage, Dalamar wasn't so foolish as to believe that would last. Those times were better in fact, when he could pit himself against the lich, no matter how hopelessly.  
The worst was when he was alone, either in his rooms or here, in the kitchen. He was the only living occupant in the Tower unless you counted the Accursed, and Dalamar didn't. It became so lonely, being isolated so completely. Even when he'd been alone before he hadn't been, not really. They had been other people, other animals, around him. No longer.

The room became suddenly colder, and Dalamar looked up quickly. It wasn't Fistandantilus, rather one of the Dead Ones, the undead spirits that haunted the Tower.  
At first they had frightened him, a constant reminder of what would happen to him if he failed and died here, but it had slowly faded. The Dead Ones were everywhere, in every corner, down every hallway, invisible except for their dead, accusing eyes and pale white hands. Eventually Dalamar had stopped noticing them, and had even, on one particularly distracting evening, walked straight through one.  
This one was starting to look rather familiar, Dalamar thought, manoeuvring his chair closer to the fire. He had seen it before, he was sure. Of course, he had seen most of the spectres several times, but this one stuck in his mind. He had never seen such a look of paralyzing terror on any person's face, let alone a dead one.

Dalamar levered his aching limbs out of the chair, and went to boil some water for tea. He wasn't thirsty, but he was cold, and he needed the normality in the face of so much horror.  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the spectre's eyes dart to the door, then at the ceiling, as though afraid something was going to come oozing through the brickwork.  
The was really only one thing a dead creature would be frightened of in this place. "It's not here." His voice sounded rusty, he only ever seemed to use it for spellcasting and the barely civil _'Shalafi'_ which was all he could bring himself to call the creature. "It never comes down here." The kettle full, he hung it over the fire to boil. "I don't think it eats."

The spectre looked at him, and once again Dalamar was struck by the sheer range of expression in its eyes. Most of the Dead Ones just drifted along in the dull resentment of those who know things couldn't possibly get any worse. This one seemed to know that not only were things not yet at their worst, they would probably get there very soon. Right now it was looking at Dalamar in amazement, as though it hadn't realised he could speak.  
And then, maybe because he really was that lonely, or because the spectre had stirred some long-dead ember of curiosity, he continued. "What are you scared of anyway?" He settled back in his chair with a sigh, stretching his aching legs. "You _are_ dead, you know."

The spectre's white hands flew up in exasperation. Of course, it knew _that_. It glanced once against the door, then the air rippled as it shuddered.  
"I know, it frightens me too." Funny that, he'd never really thought about how much Fistandantilus scared him, the fear was buried so far under the pile of fury, hatred and grief that he never seemed to feel it.  
The Dead One held one hand in his direction, then made a dismissive gesture. Why don't you leave? No doubt the spectre would love to have that option.  
Why not? he really needed to talk to someone, or something. In the same flat, emotionless tone, Dalamar answered, "I'm going to kill him"  
It was interesting to see the spectre's eyes widen, then they became a blur as the creature frantically shook its head.  
"I'm going to kill him," Dalamar repeated, almost to himself. The kettle was starting to steam and he pulled a mug from the washbasin. Raistlin's old mug, which he had not been to bring himself to throw away and had ended up using. The red enamel was chipped and cracked.  
The spectre raised it's hands in despair. Why!  
Dalamar was not going to talk about that to anyone, even one who couldn't talk back. "Don't you want him dead?" he said mildly, pouring the boiling water into the mug and adding the tea leaves.  
It rolled its eyes. Of course.  
That was interesting. Dalamar felt more like himself than he had for a long time. "Why?"

The Dead One looked again at the door, as though worried Fistandantilus would burst through and do... whatever it was that thing could do that could frighten even one already dead. Then it raised a hand to where its throat had once been and made a tearing motion.  
Now that _was_ interesting. Dalamar sat forwards. "It killed you?"  
The spectre nodded.  
"Why?"  
It was a stupid question; he knew it the moment the words left his mouth. The creature couldn't speak, how was it supposed to tell him that.  
To his surprise, the spectre didn't just roll its eyes again, but froze, as though deciding something, and beckoned him over to the door.

The creature made its tentative way up the ground level, first checking every passageway for signs of the lich. Once there, it pointed out of one of the windows.  
Dalamar looked out. He didn't look out much. His room was so high up he never saw much, and kitchen didn't have any windows. He was rather shocked to see it was snowing. Winter had arrived. Almost a year had gone by without his noticing.  
The spectre was not pointing at the clouds though, but rather at a ragged bundle lying on the ground a little way from the gates. Dalamar looked at it. It appeared to be a head of black cloth, entangled with what look like.  
Bones.  
"Was that you?" The body of the one who had cursed the Tower, that had stood guard over the gate until Fistandantilus had torn them from their post. How would that.  
"You killed yourself." Dalamar stated, turning back to go the kitchens. It was cold, and to be honest he wasn't too sure if he wanted to carry on talking to the spectre. If this was really the ghost of the one who had cursed the Tower, then it was the same mad mage who had provided the Kingpriest with the excuse to go after magic users. This fool had started the Lost Battles and he wasn't anyone Dalamar wanted to talk to.  
But.  
"Why does it scare you so much?" Fistandantilus had been absent for the most part during the Lost Battles, appearing only afterwards in- of all places- the Temple of the Kingpriest.

What happened then froze Dalamar in place better than any amount of ice ever could.  
The spectre clutched at where its temples would have been, and shook its head over and over, wavering from side to side as though fighting a terrible battle. It seemed strange and bizarre, but it was instantly recognisable. It was exactly what Raistlin had looked like when had been finally losing the battle with Fistandantilus.  
"It controlled you?" Dalamar's voice was a croak. It took him a few moments to realise he was no longer holding the mug. It lay on the floor, still in one piece, but with a new chip in the rim and the steaming tea spreading across the flagstones.  
The spectre nodded furiously.  
"It made you throw yourself on that fence"  
More nods.  
"It made you curse the Tower"  
Nod. Nod.  
"He made you attack the Kingpriest"  
Nods, with a hand gesture that clearly meant; something like that.  
"It engineered the Lost Battles"  
One single, empathic nod.  
"Why"  
For the first time, the Dead One- Andras Rannoch, Dalamar finally recalled the name- looked him in the eye. He could see the desperation in them, dead as they were. Desperation to warn him, for him to understand just how terrible this was, and have him warn the world of what had come back. The spectre didn't know why, but it knew, just as Dalamar now knew, that it would have been horrible beyond their worst nightmares had it succeeded.  
Were he to succeed.

Dalamar felt cold, cold that had nothing to do with the Tower's curse or the weather. The Conclave didn't know this, /nobody/ knew this. Fistandantilus had been thorough, damn it to the Abyss.  
"They don't know that it's... that creature." Dalamar said at last. That was the worst part. They wouldn't believe him if he told them it was Fistandantilus, not Raistlin. _The ravings of one driven mad by one loss too many_, they'd sneer. And if that was the case, they wouldn't pay any notice to Rannoch's warning either. "They think it's someone else." Give and take, Rannoch had told him something important. "They think it was someone who was... close to me. I know it isn't." Dalamar swallowed. "It killed him." His voice was as dead as Fistandantilus'.  
The spectre nodded again, yes, it knew what he meant. Fistandantilus had probably killed someone close to him too, to set him off against the Kingpriest. He vaguely recalled that Rannoch had lost a tutor to the Kingpriest's armies. Coincidence? Probably not. Where Fistandantilus was concerned, there was no coincidence.

Once again, Dalamar felt sick. Fistandantilus had engineered the Lost Battles, without anyone noticing, even Rannoch had only known when it was too late. And now Dalamar was trying to stand against him.

But then again. Fistandantilus had engineered the Lost Battles, had been quite happy to see magic wiped from the face of the earth. It had served its plan. What was that plan? The destruction of all magic, reserving it just for the lich itself? What was it that would eclipse even world conquest? Dalamar would have to stand against him, because someone had to.

He remembered Fistandantilus' expression, when the lich realised who his apprentice was, that rage. It hadn't expected him. It had been expecting someone it could work with, perhaps another poor fool like Andras Rannoch who it could bend to its will. Instead, it had gotten him. Would that be enough? Would that simple mistake be enough to disrupt the lich's plans? Fistandantilus had been very careful with him, not letting Dalamar have any opportunity to attack him. He could see how the lich had sealed him off, a distraction. Had he delayed the creature's plans just by being here? He felt a brief flicker of hope.

"I will stop him." He met the creature's dead gaze. After staring down Fistandantilus, it wasn't hard.  
The creature started to shake its head.  
"I _will_." He infused the words with as much certainty and dedication as he could. Words of steel. "I _will_ stop him." He took a deep breath. "And you are going to help me."  
It wasn't the best ally by any means, and the spectre looked half doubtful, half dreading, but it finally nodded, eyes rolling once more to the ceiling as though praying for this not to go as badly as it feared.

He felt sick, but again, that hot rush of vindication. Of, he almost smiled, heroism. For Raistlin, for himself, for the magic. He would have to win.

_Skull Bearer._


	2. Chapter 2

_Tiernan Hunter: Thank you, I wanted to get Rannoch in it ever since I read about him. He's just so... adorable, in a twisted way._

_arrasailup: I wish, Andras Rannoch and the take of the Lost Battles come courtesy of the best Dragonlance books I've ever read, the Kingpriest Trilogy. No Raistlin, no Dalamar. Just Fistandantilus kicking the living daylights out of everything in his way. Before I read them, I wondered if I'd made the lich too evil, afterwards I realised, if anything, I'd made him too /nice.  
Sorry, I love those books :)_

_Shadow: Heh, cheers. Dalamar's glad for at least some company._

_WalkingInDarkness737: As I said above, I didn't think of them either, thank Chris Pierson._

_mintsui: Well, it isn't._

_ShadowValkyrie: Fistandantilus is One Scary Bastard. I'm glad I got him about right._

_Loran: Yes, I think he is as well._

_Halokitty69:I love Andras a lot, he just so totally doesn't deserve any of the shit he gets, and Dalamar really needs someone to talk to, even if they can't talk back._

**Tower 2**

_Don't give a fuck about the hell's Gate, __ain't punkin' the crowd and I'm still standing up straight.  
So, we pull these jobs to make a little money;  
No one gets hurt if they don't act funny.  
-Scooby Snacks, Fun Loving Criminals._

It wasn't even colour. It wasn't anything. Trapped inside his own head, Raistlin couldn't describe what it was like in words. He had no eyes to see, no ears to hear, no hands to feel. But see and hear and feel he did, even though the world outside was completely cut off. He could 'feel' Fistandantilus' thoughts, 'see' the outline of outside, but the lich was being careful, and The Wall had never faltered again.

But it would, Raistlin was certain of this. It had grown easy to flit through the hole in The Wall -- the hole the lich had put there _himself_, irony of ironies -- and see into Fistandantilus' thoughts. It had taken him a while to trust in his own invisibility, waiting for the lich to grow complacent, accepting that Raistlin was no threat, before daring to move. And even longer- although there was no real sense of time in this place- to attempt to read the lich's thoughts. But it had worked.  
It wasn't so easy to put them together though, like putting together a puzzle made of a billion pieces and half of them missing. Luckily, Raistlin was good at puzzles, and he had more than enough time. And whatever the lich was planning to do, it involved a great deal of magic, magic that would leave him weakened. Hopefully by then, Raistlin would have discovered what he was planning, and would have worked out a way to disrupt it, and if possible, turn it back on its caster. All he had to do was not to be noticed.

It was painfully easy. Easy because whatever was happening outside was occupying all of Fistandantilus' attention, with none left to spend on a ghost he believed half dead with grief anyway. Painful because it was so obvious that this was how Fistandantilus had been controlling _him_. And he hadn't even known the lich was there.

There was a certain irony at playing- and beating- Fistandantilus at his own game. He had always been good at manipulation, although his skills had gone rusty of late, pitted against Caramon, who a brain-dead troll could have tricked, and Dalamar, who needed none.

Dalamar. Gods. He missed him. It was utterly stupid to wish the elf was here, not to mention blatantly impossible, but he couldn't help but wish it anyway. It was a cold, lonely existence - he couldn't call this living- and he desperately wanted to talk to him. The crafty Dark elf always had the best ideas. And there were times when his grip on the lich's thoughts slipped, or he was almost noticed, or he snatched some new piece of knowledge that made no sense, and he just wanted to scream in frustration and would have given anything just for a few moments with Dalamar. Just to centre himself. Just to know he wasn't alone.

But he was, and to think down those lines was to come dangerously close to giving up. Raistlin threw those thoughts back behind The Wall regretfully. There wasn't time for them, and they could attract unwanted attention, there would be later, but for now he had to focus.

It was a lot like eavesdropping. He stayed perfectly still, blended into the static background, and listened. There were a lot of thoughts, some of them hidden, most of them useless, but sometimes...

Sometimes it worked. Snatching up piece that, while they might not throw any light on the situation, would help later. Or perhaps give a little hope; such as the realisation that whoever the Conclave had sent had upset the lich's plans badly, or that whatever the lich's plans were, it would take a long time yet for them to be ready.

Then, there! He'd started to recognise the thoughts he was looking for, those of the lich's plans. They had a different... colour? Texture? Scent? None of those, but they felt different.  
And like all good eavesdroppers, he had to move closer to hear more, while still remaining invisible. It was difficult sometimes, when Fistandantilus was being too reflective he occasionally remembered he wasn't alone, and Raistlin had to snatch away fast as- well, thought. And there were some thoughts the lich guarded like a dragon guarded treasure, and Raistlin dared not even go near. If Fistandantilus realised his host was not as crippled as he'd thought... Raistlin didn't like to think about it. Here, thought was real, and he had to be careful what came to mind.

The thoughts weren't words so much as feelings, muted and dead, and images. The memory of the Nerakan throne room took pride of place. The lich carefully dissecting the memory piece by piece, looking for what?  
Information. Information on Takhisis. Had Raistlin been able to draw breath, he would have held it. He hadn't been able to find out many details, and nothing like this. Fistandantilus was planning to do something to draw even more power, how or from what or to do what Raistlin didn't know, but it would be quite soon. The lich didn't have everything he needed yet, but it would come.

Was what he wanted in those memories? Raistlin quietened his own thoughts, tucked them away, the better to listen.  
Not the throne room now, but another room, a laboratory cluttered with magical implements and spellbooks and artefacts enough to have kept Raistlin happy for the rest of his life. But Fistandantilus' attention was not drawn to them, but rather to a door in the far wall. A door that made no sense, there was a window beside it, and the lich seemed to know it was several stories up. A door with no keyhole, and a doorframe made of the heads of dragons.

Raistlin felt a slow, sinking sensation. He knew this door. Not only through Fistandantilus, who seemed to have looked upon it many a time, but from his own reading, eons ago when he was still the master of his own body. The portal to the Abyss, through which Takhisis had sent her shrieking hoards thousands of years ago, and within which She had been sealed by Huma. And the lich was trying to open it; there was no mistaking the train of the creature's thoughts.

Raistlin bit down on the emotions threatening to rush up, and fled. Fistandantilus had gone back to examining his memory of the throne room, he would learn no more here, and if he stayed much longer he risked exposing himself.

Back behind The Wall, within the protective cocoon of grief, it was safe to think. Fistandantilus wanted to open the portal to the Abyss. Why? What would the lich gain? Nothing. Takhisis might be grateful, but if he had been the kind of creature to be satisfied with blessing from his betters, none of this would be happening. Fistandantilus would only serve one more powerful in the hopes of betraying and usurping them...

...In fact, the only surprise should have been that he hadn't realised it sooner. Fistandantilus had _told_ him as much, in his Test. He had seen the lich bore a hole through The Wall to hide his treacherous thoughts when facing the Dark Queen. Very well, the first had been a long time ago, and the second when he had been in no fit state to register anything, but that was no excuse. To usurp Takhisis herself! No wonder the lich was tempted. Raistlin would have been hard pressed to resist that sort of possibility. Fistandantilus had planned- Gods, he had planned for centuries for this. He had staged the Lost Battles to destroy the Orders of High Sorcery so they couldn't interfere, had insinuated himself in the Kingpriest's court and set the madman off against anyone or anything that could stand in his way. And when everything was ready, he had made his attempt in Zhaman.

But that had failed, somehow, and the rest Raistlin knew only too well. Fistandantilus hadn't stopped trying, hadn't given up, and even now Raistlin couldn't help but admire that kind of dedication. If he hadn't become the tool of it.  
And if the idea of Fistandantilus attaining Godhood didn't make him feel sick. Who knew what the creature would do with unlimited power, but if what he had done so far was to be any indication, Raistlin wasn't too sure he wanted to know. And he definitely didn't want to know what would happen to him- or to Dalamar- if the lich were to succeed. He didn't think the creature would be so kind as to give them a quick death.

Raistlin forced himself to calm down. Fistandantilus wasn't ready, why? The portal was there, what did he lack?

It wasn't that hard to find, now he knew what to look for. The information was there, just behind The Wall, not even hidden very well. The lich was confident, or perhaps he just thought the information irrelevant. What would Raistlin do with it?  
And indeed what would he do? The lich needed a goodly priest to open the portal, a goodly priest and a black robe, an impossible combination but one which Fistandantilus had made in the past. There were old thoughts of using Elistan- which gave Raistlin a queer feeling of familiarity, as well as a slight relief the lich had chosen someone else. He hadn't liked the old cleric much, but no one deserved that. His new chosen was some talented new cleric, Cristi- something or other. The lich was planning to use her, trick her, into opening the portal. It didn't matter. He couldn't do anything with this.

Raistlin supposed he could interrupt while the lich was fighting the Dark Queen, but that was hardly an ideal answer. He could, Fistandantilus would be weakened enough for it, but he would be obliterated and Takhisis would be free to walk Krynn. It was better than letting Fistandantilus achieve his ambitions, but not by much.

Raistlin filed away the information. But still, why didn't the lich act? The cleric was there, in the Temple in Palanthas (there was a Temple in Palanthas?) practically next door, but still the lich didn't act. Why?

With two pieces of the puzzle, the third was the easiest to find. Because of the magic. Because Fistandantilus didn't have the knowledge necessary to open the portal, let alone to fight the Dark Queen. And he was unlikely to get it. Many of the lich's spellbooks had been destroyed during the Cataclysm, and the most vital had gone up in flame with Zhaman. Without them, Fistandantilus either had do all his research again from scratch- a work of centuries- or to go back and get them.

It was an odd mixture, admiration and hatred and fear. Admiration that the lich really would do that, hatred for what it would meant, and fear at how impossible the task to stop him now seemed.

But yet...

There was something there, something buried under a head of thoughts and memories. It wasn't well guarded, but it was like taking out a single card without collapsing the castle. Not fear, so much as wariness, a warning. Not to go near his past self.

Raistlin froze, and for a moment his presence became so blatantly obvious that he had to dash back out quickly before Fistandantilus noticed. He did, but Raistlin had been fast enough that other than a quick glance outside The Wall, Fistandantilus dismissed it.

Raistlin forced his thoughts to calm, and carefully listed them, one at a time, carefully checking for any mistakes.

Fistandantilus was going to the past, yes, he knew that.

The lich's past self would be there, that too was obvious.

What would happen if the two met. That, Raistlin didn't know, and didn't try and guess, it was beside the point anyway.

The lich would be weakened by the casting of the Timespin spell- and he would cast it, Fistandantilus had as low regard for most magical artefacts as Raistlin did- yes, that would be the case. Enough to see out, at any rate, the lich considered waiting a while before casting anything that would weaken him further, a few days at least.

And now the dangerous part.  
What would happen, if Raistlin took control, and attacked the lich's past self? Or tricked Fistandantilus to do so, as the lich had nearly tricked him into turning against Dalamar? The lich was probably the most paranoid creature he'd ever seen; surely it wouldn't take much to pit him in combat with himself, the only rival he'd acknowledge? Just the removal of that little reminder that it was a bad idea, and the careful doctoring of his thoughts by Raistlin to make sure he never came to that conclusion again.  
What would happen if they won?

It would be suicide.

At least on Fistandantilus' part. If his past self were to die it would reverberate through the River of Time and take lich's present self along too. The creature would be dead _at long last,_ and Raistlin would be left alone for the first time in seven years, alone in his mind, alone in his thoughts, alone...

In the past.

Alone with Fistandantilus' spell-memory gone.

Alone with no way home.

Alone in a land on the verge of the Cataclysm.

_Skull Bearer._


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you to lukei2 for the beta.  
_

_Pan Wynn: Thank you.  
Tiernan Hunter: Thanks, I came up with that idea before I worked out how it was going to happen. I'm glad it turned out okay.  
Koroko Serinia: Luckily, Raistlin's a pretty smart fellow┘ _

_Shadow: Yes, knowing your enemies' plans is the first step towards defeating them.  
Shadowvalkyrie: Cheers. To be honest, I stopped trying to work it out and just made up my own rules. They still have a few holes, but hopefully they won't be apparent :P _

_Halokitt69: Raistlin and Fistandantilus are a lot alike. More so in canon, and in fact, if my Raistlin was ever to meet his canon self, it would be that which would horrify him the most._

Tower 3

_Someone bending light comes along  
& flowers lean towards the sun.  
Some people fall in love & touch the sky  
Some people fall in love & find quicksand._

_Quicksand, Incubus_

Raistlin managed to stifle a mental curse before Fistandantilus heard it. But then, what was the alternative? This was the only chance he had, the only option that had even the vaguest chance of succeeding. And, as horrible as it was, it was better than to risk that the lich would succeed in his plans, or to intervene and let the Dark Queen have free reign on Krynn. Briefly, Raistlin wondered how he'd ended up in the position of making these decisions.

Thoughts were strange in this place. Raistlin could sense his thoughts before they were fully manifested, while they were slowly taking form. So, he knew he was about to have an idea before it struck him, and was rather relieved. There was another option then.

Ah, of course.

It was rather obvious. Of course, Fistandantilus had a spell to take him back in time, but did he have one to take him forward in time? Yes, he must have one. The lich hadn't been seen or heard of between the Cataclysm and the Dwarfgate Wars - he must have decided to move forward in time. After the Cataclysm there had been no clerics, probably why the lich hadn't acted immediately, and the time of the Dwarfgate Wars was sufficiently far in the future for the Gods to have withdrawn and be less likely to notice his actions. Immortal or not, the lich was not the kind of creature to wait for a hundred years.

The part of Fistandantilus' thoughts that held spell knowledge was the most closely guarded of all in his mind, Raistlin knew better than to try that assault. But here and there, scattered around his mind, there were memories and plans that hinted that yes, there might well be a spell to bring him forward in time as well as back.

It was uncertain. If Raistlin was successful, the lich's spell knowledge would die with him, and he would be left to dig through an entire library in the hopes of finding just one spell, with the countdown to the Cataclysm hanging over his head. Raistlin shook the fear away. He would manage; it was not impossible, he had faced far worse and succeeded. Even if the search did take him so long that he was in danger, he could always leave Istar. Palanthas had remained unscathed by the Cataclysm, and perhaps he could find help from the Great Library. He would succeed, even if he had to make the spell himself.

Once he had it, the worst would be over. If nothing else, Fistandantilus had revealed that he had more raw power than he'd ever dared to suspect. Even if he couldn't memorize the spell, he could still scribe it or just not bother and cast it directly from the book - it wasn't as though he was planning to use it again.

He could do this. The relief was monumental. After so long - who knew how long - of scrabbling around in the back of his own mind, desperate to find a plan, any plan, that could work, he'd finally found one. It was difficult, but not- not!- impossible. He'd faced worse odds; it only remained to be seen just how good of a manipulator he was.

The memory was where he'd left it. Fistandantilus either hadn't seen it or hadn't bothered to hide it. This would be the hardest part: taking the memory without Fistandantilus noticing. The lich's attention was elsewhere, outwards, thoughts running a dull red with irritation. Good, distracted.

He let all thought and emotion flow out to behind The Wall, thinking of nothing, considering nothing, wrapping the memory in a thick cocoon of nothing, like an oyster with a piece of grit. Around and around until it couldn't be touched by thought, or touch thought. Isolated and hidden away.

_Forgotten._

He'd made Fistandantilus forget. It was almost enough to make him reel. He'd made the lich forget something so important it could spell death. And, for himself, freedom. Raistlin was glad feelings could be so easily dismissed as he banished his relief, along with the cocoon and the vital piece of memory it held, behind The Wall, and buried it under the shield of grief. If Fistandantilus ever decided to look within that, he would have seen Raistlin's plans, and it wouldn't matter if the memory was there or not. But it was the one place Fistandantilus never really bothered with, and the memory could stay hidden for a long time, beyond consideration, beyond The Wall.

Fistandantilus had felt the loss, Raistlin could feel his thoughts turning inward, searching for what he'd forgotten. The best way to hide a loss was to offer something else, and Raistlin would never get a better chance.

It was agonizingly hard. If he offered the information directly, Fistandantilus would suspect the truth; if he coaxed the lich more slowly, he had a larger chance of being discovered. The best he could do would be to lead Fistandantilus to the conclusion. The lich was already searching the right thoughts; all he would need was a little... guidance.

The lich was examining his plans for going back in time, considering what might be wrong with them to cause the strange feeling of loss. He'd been very thorough: the spells were correct; the cleric was an uncertainty, admittedly, but no harder than most; the next thought was vague and indistinct, something hidden behind impossibly high walls, but with a sense of threat-

Raistlin pounced on that thought: _threat_, enlarging it, letting it dig into the lich's mind. Fistandantilus snatched it up like a wolf would a rabbit. A threat? What threat? What could threaten his plans? Again that shadowy thought, but it was quickly dismissed. Raistlin wondered what it could be, this strange thing that disturbed the lich so much. Well, if it was obvious enough for the lich to know what it was and still ignore it, then there was no point dwelling on it, as it was unlikely to be much help.

The lich was running through different scenarios; the one of the threat occurring in the Tower had been dismissed. Raistlin waited patiently.  
A threat from the cleric? He waited.  
No. From Palanthas itself? He waited.  
No. From the Conclave? Get on with it.  
No. From Istar? Raistlin nudged that one into the foreground of the lich's thoughts.  
From Istar? That was impossible. He'd been so very careful that no threat should come from there. The Kingpriest wouldn't dare, cowardly little worm that he was.  
A fanatic zealot? Determined to purge the world of evil? Laughable, even assuming one could get close to him. They wouldn't dare go against the Kingpriest's wishes.  
The Conclave? But no, his past self had made sure-

Oh. His past self. Of course. Of course. Of course! Raistlin pushed the lich's fear as far forwards as he dared.  
His past self was still in Istar, still attempting the very plan he had come to attempt! Of course he would be a threat! He could keep his presence hidden- Raistlin pushed that thought into the background.  
-But that wouldn't work, he needed the spellbooks, and his past self would hardly hand them over willingly.  
_There is no place for two such deities in Krynn._ Raistlin dared to put that thought forward, and the lich's mind fell on it ravenously. No, of course not. The danger.  
Fear. Fear. Raistlin pressed.  
Not as powerful, not as powerful as he was now, but damn him, cunning! Oh, how he knew how cunning! If he didn't strike first, his past self would!

Raistlin was amazed at how easy this was. One nudge in the right direction and the lich's thoughts spiraled down in flames. Even more amazing that the lich had tried that with him and failed. Raistlin tucked the warm glow of pride into a corner, something to enjoy later, along with the just as warm, but bittersweet memories of why it hadn't worked. If he could have, he would have smiled. Love and trust, that was all, love and trust, and Fistandantilus, who allowed neither, was being plunged into a deeper and deeper morass under the weight of his own fears.

What if he killed his past self?  
Raistlin jumped into action again. This was going to be delicate. The old memory was gone, but he had to make sure Fistandantilus didn't pick up a new one. He nudged the lich's thoughts gently, ever so gently, like guiding a broad boat along a narrow river. But a deadly river, with any wrong move ending in death. He pushed aside any fears for failure- He would not fail. He was too powerful to fail. He would succeed, and his past self would be dust- Raistlin saw the danger just in time, and pulled Fistandantilus' knowledge of the effects of Time-travel beyond The Wall. He would isolate and hide the most dangerous information later. For now, enough that it was out of the way while Fistandantilus was making his decision.

How long was this taking? Raistlin had no idea. It was hardly a decision one would make lightly, yet the lich's thoughts did seem fast. But then, to a turtle a glacier seems fast. He wondered how much time had gone by 'outside', then forced the thought away. He couldn't think about that, he had no way of knowing what was happening, and thinking of outside, and the inevitable thoughts of Dalamar that accompanied it, was too dangerous and too painful. He had to focus.

The idea of killing his past self was settling with Fistandantilus, a solid surface to spring future thoughts off of. Raistlin began to back away slowly, disentangling his thoughts from Fistandantilus', like removing a mould from a wax model, trying not to crack it and hoping it would stand on its own when it is removed.  
A flash of greed so strong it seemed almost a living thought made Raistlin freeze, not daring to move in case he was noticed. He withdrew all thought and tried to remain invisible.

But then- Fistandantilus' thoughts seemed abnormally loud- but then, why could he not take _advantage_ of the situation? If he timed it right, his other self would have a new body, a new life. He had the Bloodstone, just as his other self did, so why not take power along with life and use it on his past self? Knowledge too, he wouldn't have to read his old spellbooks to remember the spells he needed-

Raistlin barely had the time to disguise his thoughts before he all but threw this idea at Fistandantilus. The thought that he might actually _gain_ something from this horrible mess was almost too much to bear. All of Fistandantilus' knowledge and power, not to mention- if the lich's estimation his other self's spell knowledge was correct- a foolproof way of getting home. He would have the spell; all that remained would be to cast it!

It would be harder, of course. If Fistandantilus was in control when he used the Bloodstone, all the knowledge would be lost when he died. Raistlin would have to seize control, and at just the right moment, or it couldn't work. And if he failed, if he tried too early or Fistandantilus was able to fight him off, his entire plan could fail.

But it was still possible. Fistandantilus would be weakened from casting the Timespin spell and from the battle with his other self. He would find it very hard to stop Raistlin from taking control, if only for a short time. And, even if he did manage to realize what Raistlin was trying to do, he would still be facing an enraged past self, which he might well end up killing out of self-defense. It was still a risk, but by all the Gods, wouldn't it be worth it? All that power, all that knowledge, everything he'd ever wanted from the magic and more besides, at his beck and call.

It would take work, and it would have to be done well and quickly. Well, because any mental prison that had to hold _Fistandantilus_ would have to be without flaws, and quickly, because, judging by the lich's level of anticipation, it would not be long before his plans were put into action.

_Skull Bearer._


End file.
